“I can read the humiliation on your face. Don’t be embarrassed son. You are right to not trust every word that comes out of my mouth. I’m glad Lobosa raised you to have intelligence.”
“Lobosa didn’t raise me,” Valor said, eyeing the smoke streaming from Drake’s pipe.
The High Merchant swallowed a fat wad of spit. “Oh no? Who did then?”
“Someone,” Valor answered curtly.
“Human?” Drake asked.
“Yes. And if there’s no game here, and nothing to win, I’ll be taking you back.”
Drake snickered. “As I said. I doubt you want to pull me out of here kicking and screaming, shouting all the terrible things that lie in the mountains north of here.”
Valor stepped to Redstone, matching Drake’s crooked smile with his own, grabbed the fat man’s pipe hand, and twisted it. He pressed inward, locking the joints, then turned a bit further.
The High Merchant made a series of noises. “Ah, ah, ah! Ah! You… ah!”
“Tell me what you want,” Valor said calmly, “Or I’m taking you out of here bound and gagged. I’ll be sure to let the crowd know that you tried to attack me - or something.”
Drake squirmed, but only managed to push his face and body deeper into the bay of hail he sat upon. “Stop!” he said. “Let me go, damn you! You wouldn’t dare drag me out of here like a tied hog… they’d never believe a word that comes out of your mouth!”
The High Merchant turned his face away, voice sounding as if he was swallowing the hay. “They don’t listen to people like us.”
“You’re no different from them,” Valor muttered. “None of you. You’re all just one big great shit swirling around in the same bucket.” Valor twisted harder. “And when I tell the crowd we pass why I’ve gagged you, it’ll be for something horrendous. I’ll say I found you raping some little slave girl, and I’ll lock this room up. You’ll be lucky if the mob doesn’t murder you on the spot.”
“I want to take you with me!” Drake squeaked out through his windpipe. “I want to take you away from here.”
Valor let some slack go on his arm, and Drake shot up, his uninjured arm moving to the locked one. He rolled his shoulder a few times.
Valor asked, “Lobosa will never let me go. Now - “
Drake held up both hands. “He means to leave here, with you in tow, and everyone else, very soon.”
Valor studied Drake’s every emotion, the silence guiding his intuition. He saw the lack of eye movement, the lack of quivering in his words, the noticeable change that there was now no body movement, and an earnestness in his voice that begged for there to be no more pain.
Drake was not lying. “You’re telling the truth,” Valor said. The High Merchant made no attempt to confirm or deny, but he slowly lowered his hands, more calm than Valor had expected. Drake had clearly learned to ease his nerves since his last encounter with him. “Then I have questions.”
“Ask away,” Drake said.
Valor started simple. “Why? By my estimates, his forces are nowhere near ready.”
Drake nodded. “You’re right. They aren’t. And truthfully, they never will be. Ferals are a doomed race. Lobosa doesn’t have the patience to wait for his people to be truly ready. Why? Because he’ll be dead. It’ll take decades before they have the numbers or the infrastructure.”
“So again, I ask why.” Valor responded. He stepped a bit closer to build intimidation.
“I honestly don’t know a direct answer to your question.”
Load of horse shit, Valor thought. “Guess,” he said.
Drake continued. “Spies, mostly. His outposts have grown in numbers. He’s been sending more scouts and spies of his own to the surrounding lands. I believe he’s looking for a new place to make a home for his people.”
Valor swung a hand wide open. “With your help, of course.”
Drake shook his head. “Yes. Eventually. But years from now. Not months or weeks. He means to break his accord with me.”
“Why?” Valor asked. “And why have you not tried to stop him?”
Drake folded his hands in his lap. “Why would I truly want to help him? Answer me that. Firstly, Lobosa will be hard pressed to even make it beyond the Gorabund. He’d have to face the a’tashi tribes. I’ve been telling him for years that they’ve been growing stronger.”
Valor contemplated this, before speaking. “I’ve fought the a’tashi in raids. They’re pushovers.”
Drake shook his head. “The ferals know the desert beyond the Raging Sands. But not before it. Though he’d win the initial battles, skirmishing would take its toll. The a’tashi will outlast them and pick them off. The Gorabund has been theirs for centuries. If the ferals did make it past the desert, the Spade Kingdom and Laranu would already have word of their coming assault.”
Valor’s lips stretched thin. “Word given to them by you,” he said.
Drake nodded. “Perhaps. Every country has its spies, though. But if I am the first, then the credit will help. If not, I will simply be an oblivious bystander, just as surprised as anyone else.”
Valor contemplated this, and all that it meant. He was sure Drake would be smart enough to cover his tracks. None would ever find a shred of evidence to link Drake to Lobosa.
“One more question. Why me?”
Drake laughed. “Hah… gods of all kinds, boy, why would I not want you? For starters, you’ve been trained by elves, ferals, and humans in all manner of combat. You’re smart, and your brother seems equally so, if not more. And if whoever trained you is still alive.” Drake reached a hand to touch Valors’ ribs, slowly uncurling his pudgy fingers. Valor was stunned into inaction.
Drake’s mouth dribbled a bit of spit. “Gods of all kinds, boy… why would I not want you?”
Valor slapped away his hand.
Drake scowled. “Oh, lighten up, boy. I know you… you know how to have a little fun. I’ve heard of your exploits at the Golden Sands with both the ladies - and the lords.”
Anger grew in Valor. “You’ve answered my questions. For that I won’t give you another injury to live with. Now get up. We’re leaving.”
Drake stood as Valor moved to take him by force.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll rat you out to Lobosa?” Valor asked.
Drake’s eyes stayed focused on the door, pudgy feet waddling towards it. “I doubt very much that you’ll burn your one chance to escape all of this. Regardless of the price.”
“Perhaps,” Valor said.
Drake opened the storeroom door, Valor close behind, pushing on Drake’s back with the butt of his sword. The High Merchant chuckled.
Valor ensured the door was closed. The hall was mostly empty now. Lords and ladies stood in groups of twos and fours.
“Tell me boy,” Drake asked, his tone more serious than before. “That day when Lobosa stabbed me. Do you remember what we talked about? Before things got dangerous, I mean. Right before, exactly.”
Valor thought for a moment back to that day, ten years ago. “No, not exactly. Should I have?”
“Yes.” Drake uttered the word in a low tone, his eyes forward as they walked, his voice just a murmur. “You should have remembered.”
Valor waited for them to pass a small gaggle of well-to-do’s before he spoke. They stopped at a dead spot in the stairwell. “What should I have remembered?”
Drake stopped walking, turned his head, peering back over his shoulder. “There’s a darkness in the Arnaks. It’s grown in strength. Have you - ever felt it?” Drake turned fully to face Valor. Valor pulled his sword a few inches from its sheath, enough so that Drake would get the idea.
The High Merchant persisted, rolling through his words, eyes darting over Valor’s shoulders. “It’s somewhere in the mountains. I’ve been trying to pinpoint it for years, but it seems to come and go. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Valor asked.
“It would be a shame…” Drake ran one of his fingers up
Valor’s leg.
Valor spun the High Merchant around, pushing his sword pommel into Drake’s thick back one again. “Move,” he said. “and consider your offer… I don’t know. Rebuked. Hopefully that’s rich enough word for you.”
Together, they walked through the stairs as Valor’s mind conjured dangerous ideas and terrible plans.
Chapter 12
Armun entered the third hour of his treacherous, plodding walk, when he stumbled into a deep pocket of sand, swallowing a few bits of grain. He sighed, spitting it out into a clump while still trying to keep his lips together. He clasped both gloved hands around his boot, and pulled upwards. The vacuous feeling made his skin tingle as more sand filled in the newly emptied space, just as quickly as he pulled his foot free. After several slow tugs, it came loose with a suck and a pop.
There was still daylight outside, rays of it somehow managing to flow into the sand storm.
Armun did not know how much longer his spell would last. There was a mild pain, as if numbing needles were rapidly tapping against his skin, where before it was only a dull ache of traveling against the strong winds.
He missed a step, nearly falling again, stumbling to his right. His hand touched something soft and thick, like water suspended in midair.
The end of the storm.
Armun’s blood pumped viciously. His sense of time had left him, not sure of what lay beyond. He had estimated at least another half hour of wading through the Raging Sands.
He inhaled and exhaled deeply. The end of the sandstorm would be the most violent and painful, the same as when he entered. The only difference between then and now was that upon entering the storm, his spell was fresh. He could feel his aura was stretched too thin, near the point of breaking. There was no time to think. He had to step through the final threshold, and let Harma decide his fate.
As he took the last step, his right foot through the wall, the storm latched onto him, like a wolf gnawing at escaping prey, ripping his clothes to shreds, tearing them to pieces.
Armun placed his left hand on his chest. A greenish white glow began to appear from his palm, as the energy he created seeped into his veins, scattering like light captured by a prism. He felt restored somewhat, and hoped that it would be enough to keep his skin from ripping.
Remembering a time when he spent a month as a beggar to expose some dirty deeds of a few nobles in Trinalsi, Armun laughed. The memory fueled him, and with one deep exhale, he pushed off his free right foot.
Those three seconds were a lifetime of pain. He screamed as a hundred million tiny hands gripped in his pores like meat hooks, yanking back the way a child would do to an unexpected gift, followed by their instant replacement from his healing spell.
There was an unexpected ecstasy in the pain he felt, a rush of pleasure that he could not bear, like the touch of a woman he hadn’t felt in decades. Death was still possible. He feared it, and with that fear, a dangerous, invincible orgasm occurred from within.
Armun had squeezed his eyes shut to prevent them from being blasted into jelly, eyelashes now struggling against the weight of the sun. He pulled some of the enchanted gale with him, but it quickly slithered back, the snake returning to its hole. He could barely move, nor did he wish to.
He hit the ground with a hard thump as the storm relented, allowing him to leave. Armun lay there for a moment, knowing he needed to keep moving, fighting off exhaustion.
Slowly, his aura relinquished the enchantment that surrounded his skin. Relief washed over him. Dead skin peeled away, vaporizing in an instant. Armun focused on healing the rest of his skin, but stopped just short of fixing the final scratches and cuts.
He shook the deadness from his face and hands, and then set himself to tearing his clothes, fraying the edges of his cloak with a small knife. Once finished, he appeared to be more of a historical artifact than a man.
Armun walked until the Raging Sands were far behind him, and barely visible. The realization that he had done what no other mage accomplished meant nothing to him. He wondered why, and found no answer, except that he was finally becoming jaded after decades of doing what others could not.
He spat at the storm, remembering how in his younger years he would have relished such a challenge. Now, such things were merely obstacles.
He found a large rock that cast a decent shadow. Next to the rock waved a marker; a large red flag, tattered and bent, with an orange flame sewn to its center. What luck! he thought, recognizing the feral symbol.
Armun activated his aura once again. It was weak, almost transparent to his eyes, though he had just enough energy for one more trick.
He focused his aura to the front of his body, and extended his hand forward. It shot out, stretching into a thin line with the speed of a crossbow bolt, forever extending forward.
It reached and reached, until he felt it. Several life forms, moving at a decent speed, on what seemed to be a trajectory towards the marker.
Armun retracted the spell. The long strand of energy hit him in the chest, causing his aura to bounce like thick ale settling into a bowl, plopped down by a fat ladle.
He lay back down then, and waited. Hours passed. He sang to himself, mouth muffled in the cool sand, drinking minimal water. A breeze began to flow across the dunes as the sun fell beneath a yellow-orange horizon. Coldness increased with the end of the day.
Armun called upon his sprite once again, asking it to show him his memory of the queen. It was good that he had the sprite with him that day. Seeing Queen Lennith’s face motivated him when few other things would. Her voice made him feel young at a time when age was creeping into both body and mind.
But there is duty, he thought. And the oath I swore.
Both things trumped tiredness, age, or personal desire, and both had been more friend than foe, which he could say with confidence. He wondered if his younger self would deny it, would the person he was now have told him such a thing.
Probably, he thought with a chuckle.
Not more than a few minutes beyond sunset, Armun heard the call of his continuing mission. Shuffling footsteps, several small ones, humanoid, and some of a large plodding beast.
Three sets, and then the bigger plods of some creature. And rusty wheels. It was the unmistakable sound of wolfish feet, followed by a reeking animal stench.
Ferals, Armun thought. An offshoot of the combination of blood and fire clans, pushed to the edges of Harmenor by civil war, edged out by their own people, the Laranu.
Armun closed his eyes, concentrating on his aura, flattening it over his skin so that it could not be sensed.
“What’s that?” a voice called. The blunt end of a staff poked him in the side several times more than was necessary. “Human.”
“From the eastern lands?”
“Everything is east of here, fool.”
“Maybe he ran from that dragon I saw.”
“You didn’t see any dragon, imbecile. It might have been a maw. And I mean might. Even that’s rare these days.”
Another low growl. Something slammed hard to the ground, and sand kicked around Armun’s face.
“Stop it... saliva covered mongrels. Pick him up, we’ll take him with us. He looks strong. And pray that the Warden doesn’t skin you alive.”
“For what would he do that?”
“For what I’ll tell him if ya’ don’t shut yer trap and pick up the old man and put‘im on the damn wagon.” Armun felt his body lift off the ground by strong hands. Sharp nails pricked his skin, gliding through the air for a moment, until he was suddenly dropped into what he guessed was the back of a wooden carriage.
“How’d he get through the storm?”
Armun could hear the scratching of hairy bodies.
“Is he magic?” one of them asked.
“Our spears would be lit up like the Everburn’s boon were he a magical natured. Eh’sides, the damn storm doesn’t wrap around the whole of the desert edge.”
The third one spoke up again, clearly
one with some authority. “Shut it I said! He’s probably a criminal wanderin’ away from his own. He’s Spade, no doubt. Not dark enough or light enough to be from anywhere else.”
The lower pitched voice growled in response.
Armun pushed a chuckle into his gut. The feral was right. Human prison transports often followed routes close to the storm. No military leader would be foolish enough to engage on the banks of the storm. It fluctuated often; not by much, but enough to wipe out a settlement foolish enough to test their luck.
“What’s that?” Said one of the guards.
“Nothin’,” Replied another. “Cravin’ meat.”
With an unexpected sympathy, the former voice said, “I know what you’re craving.”
The bloodlust, Armun thought. It was as he’d expected. The practice, outlawed everywhere that modern law could reach, still existed. It had been years since he’d seen anyone drink enough blood to be infected by it. He knew, at that moment, the vicious territory he was in.
You can hear it in their voices. In the light trembling, Armun thought. His hand instinctively, quietly wrapped around his hidden dagger.
He opened his eyes, staring back at the Raging Sands. Before long, it appeared only as a small wall of dark vapor on the horizon, becoming less threatening with each mile.
Another hour passed, and no more threats of being eaten were spoken, nor did any other conversations occur, until the carriage came to a halt. The low grumble of large beasts filled Armuns ears. He decided it was time to play.
Armun rose with pretend fright, acting for his feral audience. He then saw his captors for the first time, the three feral guards who looked more menacing than he would admit to himself.
They bore their fangs and growled, spears shocked to life as they poked the wood panels beneath his feet. Armun danced with fake fear. One of them circled the carriage with great speed, grabbing his collar and yanking him out onto the sand. He resisted the urge to snap the arm that held him, pushing forward with his legs, creating the illusion that his captors had superior strength.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 12
